Kos 09.
Have you ever been on a double date with your own mum?
I have.
It gets worse.
The date was with a father and son.
The worst bit, actually, is that on our double dinner date I ordered sautéed mussels. I remember sitting at our table of four telling myself this isn’t weird, not weird at all, while staring at a plate full of tiny vaginas.
How the hell did this happen?
It was 2009. I was 19 and felt like I was doing my mum a favour by going on a package holiday with her to Greece. To me lounging on sun-beds was torturously dull and, as much as I loved her, the idea of having only my mum for company for a whole week felt like a prison sentence.
The journey there was intense. My mum’s idea of preparing for a holiday is to worry about it one month in advance, complete with stress dreams that often ended with 4am screams of “FUCK! ALI! I DREAMT WE FORGOT OUR PASSPORTS.”
All of this stress would come to a crescendo as we neared the airport. My mum would be frantic with panic, moving in spasms as she’d double, triple, quadruple check for keys, phone, wallet, passport. I’d sit still and keep quiet knowing that even the slightest movement, comment, would throw her into a spiral of uncontrollable rage.
Finally we’d make it thought passport control. We’d breathe a collective sigh of relief and enjoy a moment of peace, until she’d turn to me, face gaunt, colour drained and in a voice usually reserved to deliver news that a loved one has passed on she’d say “Ali. I left the fucking oven on.”
Nevertheless we arrived in our clean, marble-floored hotel room in Kos. Mother and daughter on their hollibobs. We took a few minutes to calm down and come to terms with our house having burnt down before we voyaged down to the colossal restaurant buffet for dinner. I scanned the faces at the dinner tables to see if I could find a partner in crime, a similarly-aged comrade, but all I could see were middle-aged couples and young families.
After dinner mum and I went to the poolside bar for a cocktail. That’s when they came over. Brian and his dad.
“Hi there,” said Brian’s dad. “May we join you?”
“Of course!” My mum said beaming.
Brian’s dad was undeniably attractive. He was slim, tanned, bald but his soft features and hazel eyes helped him pull it off.
I’ll give the low down on my mum, too. Denise Austin is undeniably attractive. She’s 5 foot 2, has curly black hair, high cheekbones, a tiny frame and tanned skin. She’s Jewish but people often assume she’s from the Mediterranean which she always finds immensely flattering.
Denise Austin spent her youth using her powers of attraction, wherever possible, for evil. She’d date men and ditch them for someone better looking without a second thought. Her moral compass wasn’t broken – it was non-existent. For Denise Austin love was cut throat; dog eat dog. I love my mum, I love her so much, but her behaviour as a young woman was questionable to say the least.
Anyway – “Hi there,” said Brian’s dad. “May we join you?”
“Of course!” My mum said beaming.
“I’m Steve,” said Brian’s dad. “And this is Brian.”
Brian and I looked at each other in mutual mortification. What is happening, our eyes said.
Brian was about my age, extremely tanned even though they’d arrived just two days ago. He had the same soft, gentle features as his dad but with brown, almost black floppy hair. He didn’t need to speak for me to know he was from Essex. His loafers, jeans and tight checked shirt gave that away.
Brian and I looked at each other in mutual mortification. What is happening, our eyes said. But it was too late. Our respective parents had started chirpsing each other and there was nothing left for Brian and I to do but to follow suit.
“Where are you from?” Brian asked me in the strongest Essex accent I’d ever heard.
“London. You?”
“Essex. Billericay.”
He spoke in quick bursts, his face was all good-humour and equally good-nature. I liked him immediately.
Meanwhile my mum was playing with her hair and laughing uproariously at something Brian’s dad was saying. We needed to get out of here. “Do you smoke?” Brian asked. Thank Christ. “We’re going for a cigarette.” we announced.
We sat at the foot of one of the great Greek pillars leading to reception. The air still smelt of rising heat from earlier that day. Crickets chirped in the immaculate hedges and beyond them the sea glistened, the moon reflecting on its silky surface. As we smoked he told me about his two best mates back in Essex, Tom and Jim. In short, quick bursts he gave me the lowdown on their hilarious friendship, their private jokes, even a letter Jim’s ex had written after she’d cheated on him. I still remember Brian quoting from the letter in his Essex accent, how she’d signed it off by saying “If anyfin, this’ll make us stronga!” His delivery was impeccable and I was bent double with laughter when our parents came round the corner.
“Come on Ali!” My mum said. “Let’s go to bed. We’ll have dinner with Brian and his dad tomorrow evening.”
Brian and I exchanged glances. What is happening, our eyes said.
————
So here we are. Brian and I on one side of the table and our parents on the other. The waiter places our meals in front of us and I realise with horror that I’m staring at a plate full of tiny vaginas. I look over at Brian and he, too, is staring at my misjudged order with a look of dismay on his face.
Our eyes meet and that’s it. Game over. We spend the rest of the meal in fits of uncontrollable laughter, the kind that gets you in trouble at school. The full-body convulsion laughter that’s made worse when you try to hold it in.
Our parents try to ignore Brian and I who are barely upright, hopeless, sobbing with laughter but eventually they tell us to shut up and scram. Thank god. We leave our parents to finish the mussels and, of course, to pick up the bill.
———-
Despite our unconventional first date, Brian and I had a short, joyous relationship. That holiday we found other friends in their late teens, 4 boys and 4 girls, and spent a euphoric week playing beach volleyball, eating burgers and ordering bright orange cocktails.
The very best part was when the 8 of us went out in town. We’d have dinner with our parents and then disappear into our rooms. 30 minutes later we’d reemerge in the marble lobby, a swarm of high heels, loafers, shirts, short dresses. We’d pile into a taxi, driving with the windows open so as not to suffocate each other with our noxious clash of cheap aftershave and sickly sweet perfume.
A hot promo girl would entice us into a bar with the promise of free shots and Black Eyed Peas would pump over the speaker confirming that tonight, indeed, would be a good night. A tray of bright red cocktails and neon green shots would arrive, an order so huge we’d have to drag over an extra table. I remember thinking, as we’d cheers that first Apple Sourz, that this is it – the most fun I’ve ever had in my life.
But maybe that was because of Brian. From that first cigarette we were simply together. Best friends. I don’t remember the first time we kissed because it felt so normal, it happened so naturally.
We sat next to each other on the flight home and played games of snap. Every time he won I just took the pile of cards anyway. I found it hilarious, ridiculous that he let me just win even though I’d lost. He was the best boy in the world.
As far as I knew, and to mine and Brian’s relief, our parents hadn’t hooked up on the holiday. We weren’t going to become siblings any time soon. At the airport, as we said our goodbyes, I overheard Brian’s dad say to my mum. “All they do is laugh.”
Brian and I carried on seeing each other back in London. He drove to my house one day that summer and we went to IKEA to buy stuff for university. The next week we drove to Bristol to look for his student accommodation. Every day we spent together was a blur of banter and belly laughs. There wasn’t a hint of spite about him. He was kind to his core.
A few weeks later Brian began university in Bristol and I went back to my university in Norwich. We stayed in touch but it was difficult to figure out when we’d see each other. He made an attempt to surprise me in Norwich once but it fell flat. I was kind of seeing someone and my friends weren’t sure how to handle the message from Brian. After that our chat trickled from sometimes to occasional to non-existent.
I still thought about Brian regularly over the next few years. Once when I was lying in bed with my then boyfriend I got a message from him. “I’m living in London now,” he said “How are you? Want to grab a drink?”
I did, of course, but I knew it wouldn’t be a friend drink. So, despite protests from my moral compass mother Denise Austin, I told him I had a boyfriend and made it clear we shouldn’t go for a drink.
Six months later, newly single, I dropped Brian a message. “I can meet you for that drink now!” I said. but it was too late. It was his turn to let me know he wasn’t at liberty to go for that drink.
That was four years ago and that girlfriend is now his wife; they have several dogs and their first baby’s on the way. They seem radiantly happy. And who wouldn’t be? When all you do is laugh.
